


beatle toast (but gayer)

by blobfish_miffy



Series: beatle toast [3]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Banter, Bonding, But Also!, Cold Weather, Cuddling & Snuggling, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Hand Jobs, John is a bisexual disaster, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Love, Mild Smut, Post-Coital Cuddling, Praise Kink, Rewrite, Roommates, Rutting, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Sharing a Room, Swearing, Top George Harrison, and they were ROOMMATES, feelings with porn, george isn't somehow, it's john and george bantering idk what you'd expect but, john is NEEDY and clingy and george has the fuckin patience of a saint, lots of it too, oh my god they were roommates, sharing spit lmao, some aftercare, this one actually has SMUT in it guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27807070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blobfish_miffy/pseuds/blobfish_miffy
Summary: John was miserable.He was miserable because it wascoldandfreezing,and he was secretly terrified of how much he wished George was actually sharing the covers with him.His brain, previously slow and sluggish, was working on overdrive. The unexpectedly chilly covers had startled him enough for the damned thing to start turning cogwheels again, no matter how exhausted; though his body seemed to wish to just shut down in its entirety, his mind was still churning, and though heshouldbe consumed with leftover adrenaline of the show from earlier tonight, he was instead consumed by thoughts of George.Fuckin’George.***John's totally not in love with George. He's cold. George is also totally not in love with John. He's cold too. They bunk together.Rewrite of the original Beatle Toast, but more gay.
Relationships: George Harrison/John Lennon
Series: beatle toast [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552225
Comments: 25
Kudos: 56





	beatle toast (but gayer)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmSheshan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/gifts).



> HAHAHAHAHAAH it's more gay now and it has a lil sex. It just happened. Idk how but it did. It just slipped out, and it isn't my fault, it's the fault of this goddamn fic, the way Lennison pushes forward to stay my OTP, and it's also Emily's fault because I live to please and she quite possibly is more obsessed with Lennison than me. 
> 
> Also George totally tops John don't @ me thanks.

Bleedin’ fuckin’ cold, it was. 

John shivered, burying his head a little deeper in the pillow and tightening the heavy hotel duvet around his body.  _ Freezing,  _ absolutely fucking  _ freezing,  _ especially for a hotel room. He couldn’t recall ever being this cold while trying to sleep before and wondered whether the entire hotel was as cold as their suite or it was just  _ theirs,  _ the snobby hotel manager having taken extra measures to ensure  _ The motherfucking Beatles  _ would be as uncomfortable as humanly possible in his establishment. 

John made a quick mental note to loudly voice his complaints to Eppy in the morning. 

They’d turned in uncharacteristically early for the night today. Usually they would have still been out and about, or at least consuming their body weight in liquor on the floor of the shared space and getting drunk enough to pass out the moment their head hit the pillow. But with Paul ill and the rest of them finally feeling the exhaustion of gruelling concerts, endless days on the road, and sleep-deprivation combined with a pinch of an ever-present hangover, there’d been a unanimous decision to just stay in, have a drink or two, and go straight off to bed. John hadn’t even protested at the idea: his fatigue weighed heavy on his body, head feeling like it’d been stuffed with dense cotton balls soaked in Mimi’s super special sleep tonic, and he’d barely had the energy to brush his teeth. George had to quite literally guide him to the room they were sharing, warm hands on his weary shoulders, gentle yet firm all at the same time. It surprised him how much he  _ enjoyed  _ having Georgie clasp his shoulders like that and how much he relished in the comfort it brought. If the lad had wanted to, he could’ve steered John to  _ his  _ bed, crawled in next to him, and John wouldn’t have batted an eye. Would have liked it, even. 

But George apparently  _ (surprisingly) _ had manners and a need for personal space, so he’d been sent to his own bed instead to lie there alone, listening to Georgie’s quiet, slow breathing and staring stubbornly at the wall like a block of ice.

So, John was miserable. 

He was miserable because it was  _ cold  _ and  _ freezing,  _ and he was secretly terrified of how much he wished George was actually sharing the covers with him. He shouldn’t be, of course, because this wish solely came from John’s need to have something next to him to warm up to. Of course.

_ Of course.  _

John sighed through his nose and hissed a few choice words under his breath for being unsure about his own rationalisation. 

His brain, previously slow and sluggish, was working on overdrive. The unexpectedly chilly covers had startled him enough for the damned thing to start turning cogwheels again, no matter how exhausted; though his body seemed to wish to just shut down in its entirety, his mind was still churning, and though he  _ should  _ be consumed with leftover adrenaline of the show from earlier tonight, he was instead consumed by thoughts of George.

Fuckin’  _ George.  _

He hated it, sometimes, his brain. It had the ability to make him feel like the loneliest person on the planet, poisoned its own ideas with thoughts of  _ it’s-not-good-enough-John  _ and then tried to cover the damage with a clear plastic sheet and false arrogance. It made him think of and wish for things he shouldn’t think of and wish for, things that were  _ illegal, taboo,  _ and didn’t fit him in the slightest. George was pretty and kind and made him feel grounded in a way not even Paul was able to, but that should mean he considered George a good friend. George, his very attractive friend who could melt him with a smile and could make him feel like the king of the world with a giggle. 

That should be all. 

It wasn’t, though, and John turned on his other side with a huff, squinting at the moonlit, blurry numbers of the clock on his bedside table. 

Three in the fuckin’ morning. 

_ Jesus Christ.  _

John narrowed his eyes at the offensive time, trying to demand the arms to turn back by sheer force of will. 

The clock just ticked mockingly in his face. 

He collapsed on his bed with a  _ “fuck”  _ that was probably a tad too loud, but he couldn’t be bothered keeping quiet about his lack of sleeping at this point. He was cold, he was tired, and his brain wouldn’t shut up. His entire fuckin’ body  _ ached  _ with the effort of staying in bed, the effort of  _ not  _ getting up and crawling in next to George - even if it was fuelled by his search for warmth. Which it  _ wasn’t,  _ if he was being honest with himself. It was not  _ just  _ his desperation for warmth, but for  _ touch  _ too. 

Embarrassing. Nonsensical. Entirely and utterly  _ stupid.  _ Undignifying, even. His need for George, to be wrapped up in the younger’s arms, warm and content, couldn’t possibly be healthy. The amount of fucking  _ comfort  _ that the presence of George’s hands on his shoulders brought couldn’t, in any way, be what a sane person would feel. 

John shivered once more, wrapping the sheets even tighter around his body. He could ignore the urges for now, even if it meant having the worst kip of his life. Potential frostbite could fuck off and throw itself out of the window for all he cared; he could play without his nose and toes, if they were to freeze away by the downright criminally low temperature of the bedroom. Paul and George had enough good looks for the lot of them, didn’t they? He’d just have to wear a mask for the rest of his life. Maybe his muffled singing would become a major trend afterwards. 

So, he currently straight-up refused to share a bed with George. Even if George, the physically affectionate cuddle-bug that he was, possibly would not mind it as much as John guessed he would. The lad was all grown up now after all, and no longer looked up to John as much as he used to, as poignant as that thought was. The needy-Georgie days, back when he’d claim as much physical contact as possible, were long gone; no longer did he feel the need to insert himself into any casual hug, any close conversation. Now, at the ripe age of twenty-one, he’d stepped back and had become  _ casual  _ about it. As if he did not care to be “part of it”, had a way out ready as soon as their contract was over. 

John was somehow able to admit to himself that he missed those days when George would tag along with him and Cyn and would press against him while they practiced songs at Mendips. The only way to get even a  _ sliver  _ of those days back was to invite him into the little  _ Lennon-McCartney  _ bubble he and Paul had created, and to then shut him out again. It made George a bit  _ needy  _ again, frustrated and insecure and barely able to contain the urge to plop his arse down smack dab between them, as if to put claim over his position on the band. It was  _ selfish,  _ John knew,  _ selfish  _ and  _ cruel  _ but honestly the only way to prevent George from becoming too indifferent to them and ready to get up and leave without looking back. 

As John got ready to settle down and at least  _ try  _ to sleep some more, he realised he’d probably been thinking a bit too loudly.

_ “John,”  _ came a whisper, so sudden and unexpected John couldn’t stop the startled twitch of his leg.  _ “You awake?” _

“Yeah, you  _ git.” _ He opened his eyes and blinked rapidly. Though the alarm clock was close enough for him to decipher what it was saying, George, being a couple of feet away, was no more than a barely distinguishable  _ blob.  _ Aware that he would most likely look pretty enough for John to lose control of his barely-contained urge to throw himself in the lad’s bed, he relished in his lack of sight this time, not bothering to grab his glasses from the bedside table. Some things were better left unexplored. _ “Whaddayawant?” _

The George-blob stayed quiet, but judging by the rustle of sheets, he was twitching.  _ Nerves,  _ John recognised, and he could barely contain the smug smile threatening to take over his face. George was  _ nervous  _ and it was most likely all because of him. 

He bet George didn’t get nervous around  _ Paul.  _

“What  _ is it,  _ George?” he sighed instead. The excitement was still rushing through his veins and he squinted; the blob became a bit sharper for a brief moment, John finally able to see where George’s eyes were, but then blurred again. “You talkin’ in yer sleep, or something? If you’re jus’ gonna  _ stare  _ at me like a  _ creep,  _ do it with yer eyes closed.”

George produced a shuddering breath. “‘m  _ cold,  _ and-”

“Well, God-  _ fuckin’  _ -dammit, Geo, me too,” he sneered, and he curled his knees to his chest. His feet were  _ freezing -  _ he wasn’t lying, at least. “What’s the point of that statement?”

The sheets rustled, and George stayed quiet for another heartbeat or two. Like he was  _ too  _ nervous to speak, like he didn’t know what to say. The silence infuriated him really, though he relished in the rush of pride; at least he was still cool enough to get Georgie flustered. 

John swallowed the annoyance bubbling in his throat down with gritted teeth. “If you’re jus’ gonna stay fuckin’  _ quiet,  _ you could’ve stayed quiet in the  _ first place,  _ wanker. I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

He’d already shuffled around enough to be on his back, ready to stare at the wall for the rest of the night, when George finally spoke up again. 

_ “Wait, _ John,” and he audibly swallowed. “I just- I wanted to  _ ask-” _

“Spit it  _ out,  _ George.”

“I will if you stop interruptin’ me,” he spat. John froze mid-shuffle, snarky comeback trapped under his tongue, and kept his big blabber shut. The frustration was downright palpable; if he said something sharp now, George would ignore him for the rest of the day tomorrow. He just knew it. 

He also hated being ignored. 

Apparently John’s silence was enough of an half-arsed apology, because George continued. “Considering I’m cold, and you’re cold, I figured it’d- it might be an idea to share.” 

He paused. 

John felt his heartbeat all the way up in his throat. 

_ “Huh?” _

“The- the bed, I mean,” George stuttered, and the sheets rustled again. “Share the bed so we don’t fuckin’  _ freeze  _ to death, y’know?”

John turned on his side in order to face George again, slowly, as if doing it too quickly would scare him off. He sighed quietly through his nose when the George-blob entered his field of vision again. Sharing the  _ fucking  _ bed. The exact thing he’d secretly longed for, to be  _ warm  _ and to  _ touch  _ and to-  _ too far.  _ But he’d  _ said it,  _ hadn’t he? He’d offered that what John wanted since the moment Georgie had touched his shoulders and steered him towards their room without stuttering all too much, and he’d just  _ said  _ it, like he knew John wouldn’t batter his face in at the suggestion. 

His secret wish on a silver  _ fuckin’  _ platter. 

_ “Well?”  _ George’s voice snapped him out of his racing thoughts, and he took a brief, shaky breath. “You want to or not?”

George, with his grumpy face and long fingers and pretty smile, wanted to share a bed with him. And it  _ shouldn’t  _ be weird; it really  _ shouldn’t.  _ They’d both shared a bed with another bloke before, with Ringo and with Paul and with Ringo-and-Paul, and  _ together,  _ with Ringo and or Paul there, in one big pile like a  _ “Beatle-sandwich,”  _ as Macca would say fondly every time it happened. They’d  _ done it before.  _

Just not the two of them alone, John realised with a start, and something clicked. Because this wasn’t normal for them, wasn’t routine. They’d never shared a bed with just the two of them in it. Combined with John’s barely-contained, embarrassing attraction to the younger, the mere idea of sleeping on one small twin bed with George next to him filled him with dread and excitement all at the same time. 

“‘s  _ alright  _ if ye don’t want to, y’know,” came Georgie’s angry, grumpy muttering. He sounded like a cat being disturbed from his sleep, but only if his enraged meow was really low. “Say it aloud next time, okay? ‘stead of jus’ fuckin’  _ ignoring  _ it-”

_ “I’m not,” _ John rushed out, and George’s mouth audibly snapped shut. “Not ignorin’ it, y’know, I just- it’s  _ fine,  _ it’s  _ alright  _ and I’d- I’d  _ like  _ that, actually…”

“Oh,” Georgie said.  _ “Oh.” _

And if this couldn’t get any more awkward, John spoke up yet again, all because he didn’t want to seem  _ desperate  _ and make the first move. How in character. “Which- which bed would ye like?”

The George-blob sat up slowly, the pale white of his duvet wrapped around him. Only his tan blob of a head poked out; he looked like a pile of ice-cream with a hazelnut perched on top, drenched in chocolate. John prayed to a God he had trouble believing in lately that his tummy would stay fuckin’ quiet. 

“I- I don’t-” he stuttered, and he shuffled in place. “I don’t really  _ care,  _ I suppose-”

“C’mere, then,” John ordered, because he was  _ cool  _ and totally not  _ desperate  _ to touch George, and George should just come to  _ him  _ instead. “Hurry.”

George slipped out of his bed, pillow clenched between his chompers and duvet wrapped around his shoulders like a very heavy and fluffy cape. He scrambled over to John’s side of the room, threw the duvet over John’s, and slid under the covers in one smooth motion. 

The pillow hit John straight in the face.

_ “Rude,”  _ he spluttered when George sheepishly removed it from John’s face. “Be fuckin’  _ careful  _ next time,”

“You say that like there’s gonna be a next time,” George replied quietly as he tried to find a good spot for the feather-filled thing. He carefully put it down behind John when he noticed there wasn’t enough room for it, leaning over him in order to give it a good pat.

George had showered after they’d gotten back from the concert, old sweat long gone down the drain. Now that he was close enough to look at, John noticed that he’d washed his hair and it had since turned damp and a little curly, free from all the product their stylist raked through it daily. He smelt like a pleasant blend of cigarettes and that oddly expensive, aromatic soap he always used till the last grain dissolved; different from Paul, who always smelled like artificial coconut, fresh cologne, and too many marlboro’s, and different from Ringo, who used fragrance-free soap but usually doused himself in his sparkly aftershave.  _ It’s nice,  _ John thought, and it took all of his willpower to not take a loud and obnoxious whiff when George settled back against John’s pillow. A heavy and dense scent, dancing through the air around him and pressing against his eyes. 

Soothing. Familiar. 

“If the next hotel is as shit, then yes, I expect you to be my hot water bottle.” It exited his mouth before realised, and George, though a little startled at first, grinned cheekily and snorted. 

“Then you’ll be mine, love,” he proclaimed, and he playfully poked the mole between John’s eyebrows. 

The endearment shocked him a bit but he refused to show it, leaning back with a fond frown. The new part of the pillow was freezing against his neck: he suppressed a shiver. 

_ “Sure,”  _ was all he said, and George’s smile grew a bit wider. 

It was odd how  _ comfortable  _ John felt with George next to him. He was a lighter, bonier warm mass than Paul and Ringo were, but he was warm and he smelt nice, and despite his cold feet he knew he could fall asleep like this. Even if they were a couple of inches from touching. 

Then they did touch, knees grazing when George shuffled in a more comfortable position, and they both froze.

“This was a  _ shite  _ idea, wasn’t it?” George then huffed out, laughter in his voice, and John’s heart hurt a little bit. “Dunno what I’s thinking, honestly.”

“It’s a bit warmer,” John murmured quietly. He didn’t want George to leave. “That’s good.”

“Hm. My feet are still  _ freezin’,  _ though.”

“Then get another pair o’ socks, son.”

George’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline and he scowled darkly, but his eyes twinkled in the moonlight. “An’ set foot out there again? You daft? I’ll freeze to death, you wanker. Me willy will be no bigger than me pinky finger.”

He couldn’t help it. The opportunity was right there, and though this was rather lethal with George being right next to him ‘n all, he couldn’t just  _ leave it.  _ “Not like it isn’t already.”

The twinkle disappeared, scowl morphing into a full-blown glare, and John produced a panicked, girly little giggle when George started yanking at his ear. “I’ll have you  _ know,  _ Lennon,” he threatened, and John twitched his entire body when George’s other hand brushed threateningly over the skin of his stomach, “that my pinky finger is  _ abnormally  _ large-”

The giggling turned into laughter that John couldn’t swallow down, and as he turned to smother it into his pillow George laughed along, breath hot against John’s cheek - his dick twitched, but only a little. 

It was wondrous what a bit of humour could do to an awkward situation; the tense atmosphere appeared to melt away like snow at the first glimpse of sunlight, and somehow the situation felt a lot less weird. George leaned in closer, and John leaned in closer, and all of a sudden their noses were a hair’s breadth away. 

George’s eyes were pretty, John reckoned. Even in the silver-and-black colour that the moonlight coated the room in, they looked  _ warm  _ and  _ kind  _ and  _ mischievous.  _ It felt a bit like he could get lost in them forever if he so wished.

“I’m not Eppy,” John blurted, because of course he did.

The corner of George’s mouth twitched. “I know,” he murmured back, and John’s heart skipped a beat at the softness of his eyes. “I wouldn’t be ‘ere if you were Eppy.”

Panic, as if out of nowhere, flared up and spread through his body like a wave of fire. He couldn’t even return the small smile George was offering him, producing a choked  _ “hm”  _ instead and pressing his face into the pillow like an upset child. 

George’s tone hadn’t been condescending.  _ It hadn’t.  _ There was no reason for John to assume that George wouldn’t share a bed with Eppy because Eppy was queer, and George wasn’t, and that he thus would feel uncomfortable. That he was  _ uncomfortable  _ with them. George  _ wasn’t  _ uncomfortable with Eppy, had maybe been a bit at the beginning of the professional and later amicable relationship between them but wasn’t  _ now.  _ He wouldn’t enjoy being around Eppy if he made him uncomfortable. Though George was loyal to a fault, he would have retreated from their friendship and would have returned to being Eppy’s acquaintance. But he hugged Eppy  _ the most  _ out of the four of them, had never displayed any kind of disgust when doing so. 

And besides, John wasn’t  _ like  _ Bri, was he?

_ Right?  _

“John?” His voice sounded insecure, a bit like it had sounded before he asked to share a bed. “Is somethin’ the matter?”

“No,” John answered automatically, because he would always say everything was fine even if it wasn’t. And it wasn’t, most of the time. “Tired.”

“Me too.” The sheets rustled and the mattress bounced a bit. John assumed George was changing his position. “You still cold?”

“Jus’ a tad,” he muttered into the pillow. It was the truth this time; though he wasn’t shivering anymore and no longer felt like he might succumb to hypothermia’s wretched, freezing claws, he wasn’t fully comfortable either. He wouldn’t complain about having just a bit more warmth surrounding him. 

George hummed in agreement, and less than two heartbeats later a warm body settled against him, sharp features pressing against his neck and dark hair tickling his nose. 

He jerked, surprised. 

Intruder-of-personal-space-George didn’t move from his spot and slung his arm over John’s waist, the tips of calloused fingers brushing the hem of his pyjama shirt. Socked ankles tangled with his own, movements a little too sure to be accidental. 

_ “Oh,” _ John said quietly. 

“I’m cold,” came the answer, laced with faux-innocence and a distinct undertone of smugness. “You too. This might solve that problem better than stiffly lyin’ next to each other, methinks.”

John silently agreed. He brought his arm up, locking it firmly around George’s waist, before shoving his cold fingers under George’s T-shirt like he was born to do so. 

_ “Jesus  _ **_Christ-”_ **

“Sorry,” he snickered, and he ignored Geo’s desperate spasms to get away from the icy hand by tugging him even closer and burying his nose in George’s hair. The move worked: George stopped twitching like he was Paul being tickled, and settled again with a deep sigh. “Couldn’t help meself.”

_ “Sure,”  _ the response was cynical and nasal, but George actually pressed his cheek more firmly against John’s chest, the little attack seemingly forgotten. “Warm up now, will you?”

_ “Sure,  _ sure,” he agreed. “Let’s do that.”

George was pleasantly warm and solid against him. He immediately regretting not doing this earlier; he’d missed out on so many warm hugs in the years they hadn’t shared a bed, had only powered through Ringo’s log-sawing business and Paul’s boxing matches with sheer fondness, and he was quite certain that George was most likely the better option out of three. Just a bit clingy, if Paul’s playful jabs were to be believed, but John didn’t mind clingy. He really didn’t. George was the only somewhat silent one when they shared a bed with the other two as one big Beatle-sandwich; it must be unsurprising, then, that John was wondering why on earth he hadn’t just grabbed George as a bedmate sooner.

“Hey, Haz? I was thinking jus’ now-”

_ “Oh,  _ God, call the papers,” George murmured, amused snicker muffled by John’s t-shirt. “You’ve been  _ using  _ yer _ brain-” _

“Fuckin’  _ shaddup,  _ you  _ dick.”  _ Another snicker, a little louder now.  _ “George,  _ for  _ fuck’s  _ sake-”

_ “Okay, okay,  _ spit out yer thoughts before they vanish. Go ‘ead.”

John swallowed before speaking, and briefly wondered if George could hear his quickening heartbeat. “We’ve never slept together before.”

George froze and lifted his head from John’s chest, plopping on the pillow instead. His eyes were huge and startled-bug-like, pretty mouth parted slightly. 

John swallowed again. His throat was  _ really  _ dry.

“Do you  _ want  _ us to?”

“I mean-”  _ God,  _ was he sweating? Why was he sweating? It felt like it was minus seventy in this bloody room, there was  _ no  _ reason for him to be sweating- “we’ve never… shared a bed before, have we?”

Tension seemed to flow out of George like melted goo, and the corner of his mouth twitched a little. “Don’t think we have,” he said, and John couldn’t decipher whether the undertone in his voice was relief or disappointment. He didn’t know what would frighten him more. “Just with Ringo an’ Paul, is it not?”

“Right,” John nodded. “‘s odd.”

“Hm.”

“I mean,” he laughed nervously, praying to a God he wasn’t so sure he still believed him that George noticed the nerves, “we’ve been mates for  _ ages,  _ haven’t we? An’ never-”

“Jus’ Paul an’ Ringo.”

“Just them, yeah,” he said, and then tried to inject humour into his voice. “Had to be freezing fuckin’ cold before just us two would cuddle.”

George hummed again, raising his hand from under the warmth of the covers to gently tap John on the cheek. “I’d cuddle with ye even if it wasn’t cold, y’know.”

“You would?” hope - treacherous,  _ queer  _ hope - blossomed in his chest, and he fought diligently with the blissful smile threatening to appear. “You would cuddle with me when it’s hot?”

“Only if you’d want me to,” George replied. 

He lost the battle though he’d fought hard, and opted on hiding the shit-eating grin by burying his face in George’s chest. The rumble of laughter told him that he’d not only failed to fight it, but had also failed to hide it. He couldn’t bring himself to truly care, though. He felt happy, after all, reckoned he deserved that feeling sometimes. 

George snaked his arms around him, pulled John closer until he was sure he was crushing him. “Ye’re cute.”

“That’s exactly how I don’t wanna be perceived.”

“It isn’t?” and when John shook his head, nose rubbing against the cotton, George laughed again. It felt nice. He was warm, being hugged, and surrounded by  _ George.  _ Something that he only dared to experience in his wildest dreams was  _ happening.  _ In real time, even. His scent was in his ears and in his nose and in his eyes, and the idle, gentle way he was rubbing circles on John’s back with his knuckles felt almost too intimate to be real. For a brief, embarrassingly strong moment, John felt as if he couldn’t breathe. But then he raised his head to look at George, and he inhaled. 

“Incomplete Beatle-sandwich,” George whispered into the silence. 

John produced a snort, shuffling forward until his face was as far on the pillow as George’s, and collapsed again. The small  _ “oof”  _ made him chuckle. 

“Beatle-toast,” is what he answered with. 

George huffed a laugh before yawning. “Good one.”

“You’re the condiment,” John said nasally. “Marmite. ‘cause you’re sticky. An’ some people don’t like ye ‘cause you’re not sweet.”

“Then you’re the bread, ‘cause you burn quick and yer presence makes me look better,” George argued, but it sounded like he was laughing. It was a joy to his ears for some godforsaken reason, and John, with a smile that hurt his cheeks and a heart that just about pounded out of his chest, leaned in close enough to see every pore on George’s face - even in the moonlight. 

“You sayin’ I’m  _ worse _ than you?” he brushed his nose over Georgie’s cheekbone, keeping his voice low. The answering giggle might as well have given him the power of flight. “You  _ wanker,  _ bread’s the best part of it-”

George wiggled his eyebrows. “Give us a kiss.”

And so, to George’s  _ and  _ his own complete and utter surprise, he did. 

He’d never kissed a bloke before.  _ Sure,  _ he’d let Eppy touch him a little bit in Spain, but they hadn’t  _ kissed.  _ Brian - ever the fuckin’ gentleman - had refused to kiss him unless he wanted to, and he hadn’t been sure, so they didn’t kiss. Not even on the cheek. 

Though the touch had been  _ sexual  _ at the very least, and he’d been a nervous fuckin’  _ wreck  _ when it’d happened, it didn’t compare in the slightest to the anxiety he was feeling at the moment.  _ God,  _ to think that moments before they’d just been  _ cuddling  _ and that’d nearly been too much for him to handle; they were actually proper kissing now, not just a peck, because he was moving his mouth just like he’d kiss a bird not yet ready to snog him and he was enjoying it more than he should. 

The awkward stillness of George gave off more than enough warning signs. He should stop and, at the very least, apologise for cocking up. Say that he was just having a laugh, that it’s  _ not serious, George, honest, don’t gimme that look.  _ Say that he just wanted to see how George would react if he actually gave him a kiss, even if that was a silly little lie and he’d reacted on instinct and the pure need to kiss him like a schoolgirl in love. John sighed through his nose, steadied himself on the mattress, and got ready to pull away. 

An arm snaked around his neck, tightened, and George kissed back. 

The feeling was downright exhilarating. Adrenaline was rushing through him, heart racing like he’d run a marathon. If Geo’s laugh made him feel like he owned the world, his kiss made him feel like he owned the universe. He didn’t even mind that the excuse of saying  _ “just for a laugh, Hazza”  _ was slipping through his fingers like fine, dry sand, lost and scattered with one gentle gust of wind.  _ No, _ he didn’t mind. Because George was kissing him back, and he was forcing his fucking tongue into John’s mouth like he owned it, and John was whining like a bitch in heat, and he’d  _ never _ fucking felt better. 

Fingers buried themselves in his hair, twisting and pulling, and then George flipped them over without stopping to kiss him  _ once.  _ Like he’d done it  _ before,  _ that  _ bastard- _

He bit John’s lip and soothingly licked the bruise, yanked at John’s hair with one hand and dusted over the front of his pants with the other. If he found it amusing that John was hard  _ already  _ he didn’t show it, merely squeezing his dampening crotch teasingly. 

John  _ twitched,  _ gasped, and locked his legs around George’s hips without having planned to do so. The  _ moan  _ that followed was fucking  _ filthy,  _ and as John locked his fingers in George’s hair and George put his mouth on  _ that  _ spot underneath John’s jaw, they rocked against each other. 

It was fuckin’  _ rutting.  _ They were  _ rutting  _ against each other like teenagers having their first fumbling on the bed, clothes on and surprised with how good it felt. And they weren’t teenagers anymore, they were  _ adults  _ who fucked more than they drank, but this felt better than anything John’d ever tried. His legs were trembling, his dick was  _ leaking,  _ and he’d been snogging George like a man starved. It was an outcome he never would have imagined, but now that it was happening he didn’t want it to stop. 

Fuckin’  _ bliss,  _ this was. 

Tension he didn’t know he had in his body was melting away, replaced by the slowly building  _ buzz _ in his lower belly. His breathing hitched when George put just a little more pressure into it as he rubbed their crotches together, dick fucking  _ throbbing  _ with arousal. He raised his hips, meeting him halfway, legs tightening around his waist; George sighed shakily and buried his face in the crook of John’s neck, thrusting harder with a hot little whine. 

_ “You’re doing so well, Johnny,”  _ George whispered, and John tightened his grip, desperate for this feeling to swallow him whole.  _ “Such a good lad, you are-” _

John wanted to touch George. He wanted to grab his dick and tug till he came, rub till he was a quivering mess  _ all  _ because of  _ him.  _ But he wanted George to destroy him even more. He could barely  _ breathe _ , relished in being in Geo’s hands like he didn’t know what to do with himself and George knew it all. His entire body  _ ached _ to be completely at his mercy, wished to be pushed back into the mattress and praised and teased and  _ touched _ ‘til kingdom come. 

Or ‘til  _ he  _ came, preferably. 

George was kissing him again, hot and desperate and messy, all tongue and teeth and saliva. He tasted like spearmint and ciggies and a little bit like the rum ‘n coke he’d drunk before bed, and John drank him in as much as he could. It was strange, not only feeling the intense, blinding sparks of arousal flashing through his body with every light touch, but also feeling the warm, intoxicating fondness that soaked him all up now that George’s mouth was touching his again. It was soft and sweet and aggressive and hard all at once, absolutely  _ delightful _ . And as George shoved his hand down John’s pants with a frustrated grunt and a soft  _ “all for you”  _ and fucking  _ squeezed _ his hand around his dick, John was pretty sure he was seeing stars. 

He gasped, whined, writhed, the feeling of Geo’s calloused fingers on his cock nearly too much for him to handle. Every single stroke sent bolts of lightning up his spine, made his eyes roll back in his head, and his fucking orgasm was building,  _ building-  _

Then, without any word of warning, George shoved both their underwear down and rubbed his own dick against John’s with a quiet moan, squeezing them together in one hand.

The skin-contact was too much; he came with a pathetically squeaky whine, George’s name on his lips, and the young man in question stroked him through it like he knew  _ exactly  _ what John needed. He whispered words of praise in his ear, low and raspy and smokey, murmurings of  _ “good boy”  _ and  _ “you did so well”  _ that had him shivering all over, and he felt  _ good  _ that George thought he’d done well despite him orgasming so embarrassingly quick. His inhales were short, exhales barely audible yet high-pitched. He would’ve whined louder at the overstimulation had George not gently yet firmly shushed him with a featherlight kiss on the shell of his ear. Trembling, exhaustion making his entire body heavy, he came down from his high with a sigh and one last needy buck of his hips. 

George removed his hand and kissed him again, softly and gently. For John, who’d been tired at nine already, the kiss made him feel as if he could melt into the mattress like a pathetic puddle of satisfied love-goo; still, he had a mission to fulfill, and when before George had even pulled away he was already reaching out for the lad’s crotch. 

“I’ve finished,” he whispered, and he kissed John’s neck. John settled his hand on George’s waist instead, tugged him a little closer, buried his face in Geo’s damp neck. Post-orgasm sparks made him twitch just a little bit; George rubbed his side soothingly. “Jus’ when you did.”

_ “Good,”  _ he murmured, and then he yawned obscenely.  _ “Christ,  _ I’m knackered-”

The weight of George suddenly disappeared before he could blink. He sat up, confused and groggy, the wet feeling of their come on his stomach disgusting. George was standing, making his way to the door-

“You’re leaving?” despite his exhaustion, he still was able to cringe at how desperate and needy he sounded. He couldn’t help himself, though, and his chest constricted uncomfortably. “Why are you-”

“I’m gonna get somethin’ to clean us up,” came the patient answer. George turned in the doorway and shot him a smile, white teeth glittering in the moonlight. “Be right back, love.”

John forced himself to calm down in the few minutes George was gone. He was probably off in the bathroom cleaning himself up and getting a cloth to wipe John free of come as well. It wasn’t like he was leaving forever - John was just being  _ silly.  _ He knew that. Still, he couldn’t help feeling left alone no matter how  _ stupid  _ it was. 

It probably didn’t take too long for George to reappear, but it’d felt like an eternity. John had to hold himself back from pulling him right back into bed with him as he dutifully cleaned John’s stomach and urged him to pull off his soiled t-shirt. He was even so lovely to provide him with a clean one before he could so much  _ start  _ to shiver in the cold of the bedroom, shoving their dirtied and damp ones under the bed before he’d pulled a clean one over his head himself. 

John pulled the double duvet over them as soon as George had settled down again, relishing in the warmth of it all. George still smelt nice, like his stupidly expensive spicy soap and a little bit like sweat and  _ even  _ a little bit like John, now, and he pressed his mouth against the raised vein on the side of Geo’s neck fondly. George chuckled softly, pushed John down on the mattress, and deposited himself on top of John with a content sigh. 

_ “Beatle toast,”  _ John murmured in George’s hair, and he felt him nuzzling his face in John’s shirt.

_ “Marmite ‘n bread.” _

It was the best sleep he’d had in ages. 

When John awoke, he felt warm. 

One side of his face was still very cold, mind you, because the room still was criminally freezing - this seriously could not be legal in winter - but his nose was buried in a warm neck and his body was gathered in the warm arms of a warm person. And most of all, his heart was warm, because when he cracked open his eyes and glanced at his bedmate, it was George. 

Who he’d had sex with this morning. 

_ Well.  _

As what had happened slowly started to come back to him, he could feel his cheeks burn. He’d been downright desperate, embarrassingly enough.  _ Needy,  _ even, whining like a  _ dog  _ whenever George pulled away for just a second. He would not have been too surprised if George would have gotten too overwhelmed at some point, would have gone back to his side of the room and let John believe it was all some sort of awkward, gay, wet dream. 

But George was still here. He hadn’t migrated to his own bed as soon as John had fallen asleep, hadn’t wrestled himself from John’s grip like his touch burnt. No, he was hugging him tight, snoring contentedly, and he hadn’t left.

John smiled fondly, kissed George’s throat as gently as he could, and tugged him a little closer. George settled against him with a sigh, nearly purring when John smoothed his hand over his back.

Then the door burst open, because of course it did. 

_ “So,  _ I reckon you two had a  _ really  _ good night-”

**Author's Note:**

> HHMMMMM.   
> Emily liked it and that's the sole reason I posted it. Please indulge me and give me kudos and comments, they're a big part of my diet. They make me grow big and strong. Thank u.


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